In The Poetry

Seashell

Shell at my ear -
come share how I hear
busy old sea in whispers.

Moans rise from ancient depths
in ocean sighs
like crowds of ghost monsters.

Waves lash and fall -
in roars and squalls
with all a mystery ahhh!

This poem tries to put down on paper another aspect of childhood and it’s eating things and drinking and smelling and hearing and all that.

Childhood Tracks

Eating crisp fried fish with plain bread.
Eating sheared ice made into ‘snowball’
with syrup in a glass.
Eating young jelly-coconut, mixed
with village-made wet sugar.
Drinking cool water from a calabash gourd
on worked land [...]

Isn’t My Name Magical?

Nobody can see my name on me.
My name is inside
and all over me, unseen
like other people also keep it.
Isn’t my name magic?

My name is mine only.
It tells I am individual,
the one special person it shakes
when I’m wanted.

If I’m with hundreds of people
and my name gets called,
my sound switches me on to answer
like [...]

Before I read this poem I’ll just tell you that a ‘duppy’ is a ghost in Jamaican language.

Trick a Duppy

If you wahn trick a duppy
and wahn walk on happy happy
in a moonshine – bright moonshine -
hear how and how things work out fine.

You see duppy. No whisper. No shout.
Make not the least sound from you [...]